gaining energy and awaiting the inevitable return of these events to help smooth our path as we
challenge larger issues. Eventually, we will earn the energy that a mortal manifestation of the
earthbound spirit requires to make a permanent connection to their / our Original Intent.
It was old stuff, but by reconnecting these ideas the designs of Intent came into focus, in
terms of practicing personal disciplines being like taking a course in Destiny Cartography, the
other side being to wander a relatively uncharted path designed by uninformed consent. This
understanding was comprehensive to the degree that it was briefly incomprehensible to me why
anyone wouldn’t want to take charge of their lives in this way. However, as the critical nature of
this idea began to lose its edge, I thought that examining the stuff in life that sucked wasn’t
something people just decided to do on a Sunday afternoon; that without Bonnie’s two tiers of
understanding pretty much beaten into you, all you’d end up doing was corroborating your
original actions.
“Are we close to sharing a monumental assumption?” Bonnie interrupted my thoughts.
I touched my thumb and forefinger together as my insights dipped into something merely
interesting.
Finished our meeting, I went home to write, run, shower, then have a couple of brews with
Ed at the Dover, before going to bed around eleven and trying to recall the morgue incident
again.
Initially, I drew a literal blank when I looked inside the room this time, then the bundled
sheets suddenly popped into view. I assumed my mind was finally creating the fiction Bonnie
had suggested so there was no point in carrying on. I fell asleep amid swirling memories of
general unpleasantness.
In the morning, I awakened feeling sombre, a mood that stayed with me while I worked on
another chapter of my book until it was time to leave, a mood that was still with me when I
arrived at Bonnie’s. In little time, and with no obvious inspection of me, she suggested that we
hold our morning session outside, “So you have something positive to look at while you bask in
melancholy.”
I saw no point in commenting one way or the other.
Ten minutes later, we were sitting on a park bench at the north end of the sea wall where
Bonnie began reading my latest offering.
A few minutes into it, she asked me why I had phrased my deportation as being “invited to
leave Iran,” and how that had affected my professional reputation.
"I borrowed the style from British newscasters who say things like, “’An alleged I.R.A.
killer is aiding police with their inquires,’ ” I explained, “and if the event changed anything in
my career, it was for the better; countries that deport journalists have a history of killing or
jailing their best minds.” Seriously, I added, “Most of us hated those places, so it wasn't as if we
fought very hard to stay.”
“A country is not a thing one can hate,” she said placidly. “It is a gathering point for like-
minded individuals and you can't hate millions of people you haven't met. What you're saying is
that you feared what could happen because their way of life is radically different from the one
you think you understand.”
“We’ve been over that with Otis,” I said.
